


My Mayfly

by EverydayAcolyte



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: "Oh this is gonna be sad.", Angst, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Growing Old, I just thought to myself, I'm a genius, Immortality, Old Age, Post-Canon, Romance, and it was
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-11-13 00:33:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11173272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverydayAcolyte/pseuds/EverydayAcolyte
Summary: After years and years of fierce battles and strategic blows, the war for the world is over. The hero has won. The Dread Wolf has been defeated. Against all odds, Solas' life is pardoned, but his punishment is considered a crueler fate. He is stripped of his pride and his power and banished from civilizations all across Thedas, left to live in solitude until his guilt weighs him into an unmarked grave. Condemned to die alone.However, Solas sets himself upon a new task. After all this time, he is determined to find the former Inquisitor, Lady Lavellan.If only he knew how much has changed...





	1. An Arrival

He shouldn’t have. And yet he did.

This remark could be applied to a number of his endeavors. He shouldn’t have locked away the Evanuris. He shouldn’t have severed the world into two, the physical realm and the Fade. He shouldn’t have given his orb to Corypheus. He shouldn’t have met someone like the Inquisitor. He shouldn’t have trusted her, shouldn’t have loved her, shouldn’t have lost her.

And yet he did.

Currently, however, the phrase could be most recently administered to his decision to travel across half of Thedas, following a lead that would most likely prove to be futile. No one had seen the Inquisitor for years. Some say that he killed her. Others say that she hid herself away from the world, either from shame or from a broken heart. He knew the first was not true. He only hoped there was a third option.

He traveled for days on end, veering away from the cities or any signs of civilization. Everyone knew him now. Although at one time he could easily melt into a crowd, a vagabond elf dressed in nothing but rags and furs, that time was long gone. Every being from Orlais to Seheron knew his name and his face. They’d seen him painted on murals in his honor, or stamped on sheets in brash red ink for opposing propaganda. Do not let the Dread Wolf take you. Keep your children safe from the Wolf. He will find you. He will hunt you. He will burn the world to ashes. Together we can slay the beast.

Solas wished he could rebuff the things they said.

He wished.

It was odd wearing his traveling clothes again. It had been so long since he had wrapped his cloths around his legs and under his heels, he had nearly forgotten how to do it. And for good reason. Roaming across the open lands, with dirt and mud and stone under his bare feet, carrying nothing but his staff and a heavy pack, it resembled too closely to another life. At times, he would point out a remarkable piece of architecture or some natural anomaly, only to find that no one was there to listen. The issue with being a former god was that it was both incredibly easy and impossibly hard to drive off old habits. Habits of youth usually dulled with age, but that was because it was paired with a fading memory. Solas did not have such a blessing. He remembered the way the Inquisitor's inner circle would all sit around the fire, stirring up stories and exaggerating for entertainment’s sake. He remembered being gently taken away by her hand to their tent, not at all caring to be parted from the fire’s warmth.

He remembered the way she looked at him.

Solas blinked the memory away, instead focusing on the sloping terrain that was exponentially getting steeper and steeper. Sharp rocks and minerals prodded at the pads of his feet. Before, the calluses on his soles would have not abided to the prodding and kept his flesh safe from blisters and cuts. But he had spent too much time being waited upon, too much time having his food brought to him instead of hunting, and too much time traveling by wheel-less litter than by foot. As such, it could be safely assumed that he would be fated to an abundance of sores the next morning. Lovely.

He reached the top of the slope and looked out at the vast landscape that lay beneath him. It was a forest, albeit not a thick one, with golden plumes of trees sprouting in mismatched groups. His hand shielded his eyes from the sun as he surveyed the land. Woods on his left. Plains on his right. Trees. Rocks. A den of bears. A river… the river meant he was getting close…

He finally saw what he was looking for. A tiny, nondescript village that would have been easily lost to the trees and long flaxen grasses if not specifically searched for. The only obvious giveaway was the puffs of smoke that collaged together from each of the houses. It was a friendly sort of village, the kind where it was big enough to have its own society, but small enough to be blithely exempt from any local government. Solas eyed the direction of the village and aligned it to the stars that were just barely peeking from the early dusk sky. He set his path of navigation, took a drink from his waterskin, and continued on. He planned on reaching the town by nightfall.

As it turned out, the village was closer than it initially appeared. He found himself on its border by the time the sun was shining its last rays over the horizon. This was fortunate. However, the weather also decided to take an unexpected turn, and he was buffeted with winds and the first sprays of rain that heavied his furs. This was less fortunate. At least it was a warm sort of rain. The kind that made the air thick with wet and turned the sky into groggy overcast. It was gentle, but the continuously growing clouds threatened a storm.

He hesitantly approached one of the small children that played in the watery mud. It was still the outskirts of the town, its border determined only by a non-threatening stone wall that came up to his thigh. As children do, the young one gaped at him obviously before scampering off to hide behind his mother’s legs. Unsurprising. He was a stranger, a stranger with a mage staff and multiple scars. It was smart to be wary. The boy was elven, he noted. That was a good sign. Ah, but his mother… human? Not possible. Perhaps she wasn’t the parent, and the da’len simply clung to the nearest familiar adult. Village folk were like that. Close-knit.

He smiled passively at the human woman, hoping against all odds that a place as remote as this would be unfamiliar to his features. He was not wearing his armor, or his crown, or his stride. He was simply a traveling elf looking for a place to respire for the night. Or that is what he hoped they saw. She granted him a tentative smile back. Then she darted her eyes to the village that stood behind her before waving him closer. He obeyed, joining her under the cottage’s awning. He placed his baggage beside him, momentarily rubbing a sore muscle near his collarbone.

“Greetings. We don’t see many of your kind around here.”

He pursed his lips. “My kind?” Elves? Mages?

“Travelers,” she elaborated, gesturing at his pack. “This place is a bit off the map, to say the least.”

“Well, then I suppose I am simply lucky.” He smiled again, this time without hesitance. He was awarded with a short chuckle.

“In this sort of weather, I reckon you are.”

His first instinct was to ask if there were any more elves that lived there, but he realized that asking such a thing would come off poorly, especially considering the negative connotations currently connected with the elven race. They were considered inferior for centuries before, but now? They were loathed. Blamed. Humans, dwarves, and qunari alike found the great war to be at their fault. Solas couldn’t complain; it was a result of his own doing. Just another thing to regret.

“I hate to impose, but do you know if there’s anywhere I could stay until the storm passes? An inn, perhaps?” She was right. He was, formostly, a traveler. He should act like it.

The woman shook her head, blonde bangs falling from where it was tucked behind her ears. “Again, we don’t get many of your kind around here. There’d be no business for an innkeeper. But I’m sure someone would be willing to let you stay in their house for the night. Provided you’re polite and you know how to reimburse a good host, of course.” She rubbed her forefinger against her thumb, imitating the rubbing of a coin.

It was then that he recognized her accent. Antivan. It was thin, but there. “Of course. So would you allow me…?”

“Ah, not I! Luca here isn’t very fond of strangers.” She brushed her fingers across the top of the boy’s head. He stared up at her with his huge elven eyes, reflecting the glow of a nearby lightning strike. It was the sort of well-worn exchange that could not be mistaken for anything but the comfort of a mother to her child. Hm. “You understand how kids are. It’d scare him stiff, he wouldn’t sleep a wink. There may be some further in town that are hospitable. Samuel is a friendly sort, and if not him, the village elder is always willing to help someone in need.”

“And where would I find these people?”

She pointed down the road, which could only claim to be such because of the lack of grasses and the extraordinarily trodden earth. “Eight houses down, two to the right. That’s Sam’s. He might be out hunting, though. The elder lives a little out of the village, just before the trees. Go all the way to the back, then left. Can’t miss it.”

Solas nodded, retrieving his pack from the ground. “Thank you kindly.”

She made a noise of affirmation. “Mhm. Just tell them Bria sent you.”

He turned away from the pair and took a few steps away from the cottage before realizing that he had never given her his own name. He swiveled, his arms sheepishly tucked behind his back. “Ah. I believe I never properly introduced myself.” Multiple possible aliases came to his mind. Which ones had he used before? He had to choose. “I am called-”

Bria raised her hand. “No. Not necessary. If you’re still here by this time tomorrow, then we can arrange for introductions. If you’re just passing through, I have no need nor want to know your name.” What would have otherwise seemed like a hostile remark was softened by a grin. “Now get out of the rain, traveler.”

He slowly nodded again, this time turning and not looking back. Water dripped down his face, falling from the edge of his nose onto his lips. It seeped into the fabric of his coat and made it stick to the small of his back. Traveling had its perks, but this was not one of the experiences that he missed. At least he didn’t have hair to lay soaked against his skin.

He followed the woman’s instructions to the alleged Samuel’s house, but there was no answer. Hunting, most likely, as she had predicted. The house was not locked. In fact, he didn’t believe the door even had a lock. Village folk were like that. Too trusting. For a moment he entertained the thought of seeking shelter despite no invitation, but he decided against it. If what he was seeking was truly here, he should try to avoid villainizing himself to the townspeople.

He walked to the elder’s. Few people were out in the rain, but he saw plenty of eyes staring above window panes and behind curtains. They had their reasons to be cautious, and he his own. So he ignored the probing, curious looks and simply kept his eyes forward, well-versed in the practice of having an audience. If he didn’t give them a reason to fear him, then they wouldn’t give him a reason either. That was the theory, anyhow.

Finally he reached a cottage that stood atop a small incline, surrounded by a wooden fence. A luscious garden sprawled around the building like a castle’s moat, leaving no place to put his feet except a deteriorated stone path that winded its way to a single door. Children frolicked among the plants, oblivious to him behind the large leaves as he moved past. He knocked on the door without thinking. The village elder would know everyone. Surely they could help with finding-

The door slowly swung open, as if pushed gently by a palm. There in its wake stood an old elven woman. One of the first things he noticed was how her frame angled forward in a perpetual lean, as if she was constantly looking over the edge of a cliff. Seemingly conscious of his observation, she postured herself against her walking stick, attempting to stand taller. No, not a walking stick. A staff. Her hand, just the one, was worn and wrinkled and thin. Her cheekbones stood out amongst the slight drooping of her jowls and the scatterings of sunspots that freckled across her skin in varying sizes and numbers. What was once umber hair had dulled into a dusty color, and was pulled into a loose bun that frayed at the neck. But her eyes… Her eyes. No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t have been that long. But those hazel eyes, bright and patient and-

He remembered the way she looked at him.

There was no breath inside him. It was if two hands had reached themselves inside his lungs and splayed their fingers, stretching the two organs taut. He clutched at his staff, using it to keep his senses grounded. It wasn’t supposed to be this easy. He hadn’t actually thought- He hadn’t thought it through. But here she was. What a time for the world to decide to give him luck. She was standing there, there, in the doorway, close enough to touch. It was her, it was Athima, it was his love, his-

“Ma vhenan. Welcome home.”


	2. An Apology

Ma vhenan.

My heart.

Athima hadn’t seen him for years, decades, with nothing to remember him by but soured memories and the terrorizing tales of the Dread Wolf. And yet, those were the first words from her mouth.

Ma vhenan.

How he wished he could say it back. 

It wasn’t that the feelings weren’t there. He had traveled miles, bribed off countless informants, given away what remained of his riches just to find her. If that wasn’t a sure sign that he was still in some way devoted to her, then there was no other way he could prove it. He believed that he loved her. But that wasn’t enough. Bards claim that distance makes the heart grow fonder, but not when paired with time and tire. It had been too long. They had been too far. He still felt for her, but his feelings were contorted into a twisted, shameful, guilty simplification of what it had been during the time of the Inquisition. He couldn’t say it back. He didn’t deserve to hear it, much less return it.

Hundreds of times he had imagined their reunion in his dreams, but he had never genuinely expected it. It was too dangerous, too cruel to himself to hope. In sleep, he would see her tending to a hart and he would sweep her off of her feet, riding the creature into the morning meadow. Other times he would lay himself at her feet and beg for forgiveness. When the dream was kind, she would grant it to him and they would embrace. When the dream was unkind…

Well. At least nightmares were no longer a problem he had to concern himself about.

His favorite version of the dream, and perhaps most unrealistic, was when he would simply walk into her home while she was baking (as she so often did), approach her from behind, and wrap his arms around her waist. She would pat him on the cheek and offer him a sample of her newest recipe, as if no time had passed at all. As if they had not fervently argued, or fought, or screamed at each other from across battlefields. Of course, he had never expected such a dream to be what would happen in reality. He would’ve expected hatred, or at the very least a complete loss of any affinity for him. 

And yet.

Ma vhenan.

He realized he had not responded, and so did she.

“You always had something to say, but it’s now of all times that you hold your tongue.” Her voice sounded almost disappointed, but she smiled. A smile he was completely undeserving of. “Come in, come in. I have a kettle on.”

Without waiting for him to answer, she turned around and shifted next to a large woodstove. Solas took a few tentative steps inside and closed the door behind him. The fact that he had enough of a mind to do even that was miraculous. Once inside, he numbly viewed the room, unsure of what action to take. 

Seeing his confusion, she pointed to a chair. It was casual, as if she was used to apocalypse-leading lovers she hadn’t seen for years arriving on her doorstep. How was she so calm?

He followed her instruction and took a seat, awkwardly holding his hands atop his knees. After minutes of thick silence, she approached him with a tray of two clay teacups. She was about to set them on the table beside him when she paused.

“Oh,” she uttered quietly, as if gently chastising herself. “You’ve never been fond of tea. I knew that. I just always make a pot before I go to bed. Don’t feel like you’re obligated to drink any.” 

“No, please,” he finally said, breaking his stretch of speechlessness. “I would… love a cup of tea. Thank you.”

She looked at him oddly. “Really?”

“I’ve changed more than you’d think.”

It was then that she laughed, a full, ringing sound that brought too many memories rushing past his ears. “Of course you have! And so have I, I reckon.” She gazed down at her own body as if it was the height of a good joke. “Fine then, two cups of tea. If you’ll give me a moment-”

Solas stood, catching Athima by the crook of the elbow. “Allow me.”

It wasn’t until after she nodded complacency and he was at the stove that he realized what he had done. That was the first time he had touched her since… well. He couldn’t ponder over it, however. He hadn’t paid enough attention for the touch to be detailed in his mind. He had wanted to remember it, to be able to roll the moment in his hands and mold it in his head as something to be preserved. But he couldn’t even grasp at it. Another chance thrown away.

He gathered the tea set from the counter and placed it at the table, then returned with the kettle. Other than the shrieks of laughter from the children still outside and the ticking of an ancient clock nestled into a corner, there was no noise. He immediately began to pour a cup for Athima, depositing a generous spoonful of honey, the barest bit of cream, and a sprinkle of cinnamon. He didn't even have to think about it. Solas held it out to her.

“You remembered.” For a moment, her smile almost seemed to become teary, but her composure returned as quickly as it had dissipated. She accepted the cup. It looked too big in her single withered hand. “I’m afraid I cannot claim the same for you. There was only a few teas that you were ever willing to drink, but for the life of me, I can't remember. I wouldn't know if I have any in the cupboard right now.”

“It is fine," he reassured. "You never liked the ones that I preferred. There would be no reason for you to have them. You were not expecting me.”

“No, I certainly wasn’t!” she agreed. Her eyes glided around the interior of her home. “Maker, this place is a mess. I swear, I clean it every week. Ah, but the children. The children like to spend too much of their time here, though I have little idea why. An old elven woman past her time surely doesn’t make interesting company.” She glanced down into her cup self-consciously and Solas felt a pang of remorse. Athima had never been a woman to be ashamed about her own body. At least, not before. “But I am grateful, for whatever reason they choose to come. It would get rather lonely up here without them. The villagers come to me for sore stomachs and runny noses, and Samahl visits sometimes, but other than that I get small company.”

He knew she did not say these things to hurt him, but how they did. Each reminder that he had left her alone, grieving and damaged… A wave of self-hatred more fierce than he had felt in months rose in his throat, too heavy to be able to speak through. He took a sip of the tea, controlling his face to stay even and not grimace from its bitterness. He spooned in another heaping of sugar and drunk again, burning away at the feeling with each swallow.

Solas cleared his throat. “I have rarely heard you swear by the Maker before.”

“Ah, that. It’s rubbed off on me from the others. A lot of Andrastians here, although not as many as you’d guess. I don’t even think about it anymore.” She worried the brim of the cup, looking contemplative. “Besides, it’s not as if I can exactly swear by the Dalish gods anymore, now can I?”

“I don’t think they would mind.” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

“Oh? In that case, Dread Wolf take me! This place is such a mess!”

This was a joke.

This was a cruel joke that the universe was playing on him. To make it so easy to find Athima again, to have her accept him into her home, to be casually conversing as if it was a weekly sit-in. He couldn’t stand it. It was _wrong_. The utter calmness of it all made him want to stand up and fling the teacup against the wall, just to hear it shatter. He needed noise, or conflict, or confrontation, something, _anything_. Anything was better than this charade they were playing at, like two young lovers who were ignoring the fact that one had caught the other in a stranger’s bed. No, it wasn’t even avoidance. His absence and his identity were in plain sight, and nothing she said hid from them. She just… accepted them. And he loathed it. He loathed that she could be so placid when he was burning inside. It was callow to think, but he loathed how she didn’t seem to even _care_.

Athima noticed the sudden upheaval in tension and placed her cup on the table. 

“Solas?” she asked kindly, because of course she did. She was always the kind one. She was always the understanding one, the forgiving one. Of course she did.

He set his own cup down. It was harsher than he had expected and clinked against the table's surface, a dribble of tea splashing out onto the wood. 

“Why do you say nothing?” he asked, straining to keep his volume low.

“What do you mean?”

“You know. Why are you not asking me why I am here? Why I have never come before? Why I left?”

“Because I know the answers, vhenan.”

“Please, don’t.” Solas shook his head, his voice hoarse. “Don’t. Do not do that. I do not deserve to be called that. Do not forgive me.”

The air stilled. It was as if one of the lightning strikes from the storm had found its way inside, sending a combative jolt into the conversation. For the first time since he had arrived, Athima didn’t look pleasantly content. Her brows furrowed and her mouth pursed into a line. “...Forgive you?" She shook her head in disbelief. 

"You think that I have forgiven you? Just because I call you my heart?” Athima leaned into the table, her face growing more fearsome. Like she was suddenly holding back a wave with her bare hands, willing the water to not crash upon the shore. “Maybe. Maybe for us, yes. Maybe even for this," she said from behind clenched teeth, holding the stub where her other arm should've been. "I had forgiven you for that long ago. I _loved_ you, Solas. Of course I forgave you.”

The past tense made his heart ache. Her willingness to excuse him made it ache even worse.

“But for the world?” she asked, her tone taking a darker quality. She stood so that she was standing above him. Her grip tightened around her stump, as if she was trying to hold herself close. “For what you did, and what you attempted to do? For the lives you took? For the thousands that are no longer here because of your own selfish desires?" She spat the words out as if she had been chewing on them for years. "For the mothers, the fathers, the children? The broken families and burnt homes? That is not for me to forgive, Solas. Do not ask for it, because I cannot give it to you. Nor would I.” She bored into him with hard eyes, filled with the same sparks that he had known years ago. The furor that had been bursting inside him seethed through the seams, transferring instead to her. “But it does me no favors to become angry about it. Is that what you wish from me? To become angry at you? To tell you that you shouldn’t have come? That all you’ve ever been is a burden to me? A ruined memory? Is that what you want?”

Despite the crinkles in her face and the stoop of her back, few times before had she ever seemed so terrifying. He accepted his defeat.

“It’d be what I deserve, would it not?”

For a moment Athima seemed to contemplate striking a fatal blow. He could see the ideas churning in her mind, see her lips parting to spill them out. But she didn't. Instead, she trembled and bit her lip to keep the words from flowing over. Her age flooded back into her, and she was the same elderly woman that he had served tea to only minutes before. She collapsed back onto her chair, breathing heavily and propping herself up by her thigh. Solas prepared himself to aid her, but she waved him off.

Another pause. She murmured something under her breath. 

"What?" he inquired, leaning forward to hear better.

“I would be lying.”

“What do you mean?” 

She sighed and tucked a lock of hair that had come undone. “I am old, Solas. There is no use denying this." A shrug. "Too old to hold grudges. Too old to feel like I can fix the world or blame it for my problems." Athima shook her head and finally allowed a bittersweet smile to break through to the surface, her eyes wet. "...Too old to feel anything but happy when you showed up at my door.” 

A timid hand reached out to grasp his. 

He let it. He let her take his hand into her lap. He let her brush her fingers over his knuckles, as she used to so often before. He didn’t dare say a word, lest he ruin the lull and she gave back his hand. But he had to.

“I am sorry.”

Finally he said it. Finally he was given a chance to say it. It was what had driven him on his quest, through all the difficulty and luckless attempts. Yet when he said it, he realized that those three words meant nothing. Worse than nothing. They could not even begin to encapsulate the sorrow and shame he felt for what he did. They never could. He could only hope she knew. And if she didn’t, he would try, try until the flowers stopped blooming, until the rains gave their last shower. Try until she did. He glided his hand over hers until he found her wrist and held it gently. His gaze dipped into her own.

“Ir abelas. I... am so sorry.”

He brought her wrist up to his face. Skin met lips, and despite its age, there was no hand in the world that he would rather be kissing. Athima uncurled her fingers and guided them away, only to replace them against his cheek. Solas allowed his lids to close. A stray tear carved a path down his cheekbone until it met Athima’s thumb. She slowly wiped it away, allowing her touch to linger. 

“I know.”

Solas knew it was too good to be true. So did she. The moment would be lost, and they’d have to part, have to be apart again. They were no longer anything that could resemble lovers, or even friends. But for that instance, the two were together. The years didn’t matter. The distance didn’t matter. It was not forgiven, nor forgotten, but right then neither of them cared. It was as if the ocean of time had stilled and parted just for them, just to give them that single moment of clarity. Silent understanding passed between them, too overwhelming to verbally recognize. Rain pattered on the roof in time with their breathing. Water dripped through a hole from the ceiling in rhythm with their heartbeats.

Solas believed that he still loved her. He had no right to, but he did. Even though she had greyed, he still wanted to run his fingers through her hair. Even though her figure was enfeebled, he still wanted to hold her as close as he could. Even though fine lines had appeared around her mouth, he still wanted to kiss her. A hundred years couldn’t change that. He didn’t deserve it, but that didn’t stop him from feeling it. She was his love, his dreams, his...

His...

As all good things are fated to end, intense banging was heard from the door. Athima jolted up in her seat, and time’s waves surged back together, the moment gone. The banging was repeated, this time joined in with half a dozen others. 

“Come in,” she called out, her voice raspy with emotion. She coughed into her hand, as if it was something that could be dislodged. If only.

Seven children scrambled into the cottage. A dwarven girl with hair like coal lead the band, while little Luca trailed behind in the back. Spatterings of mud splattered the floor and the lone roof dripping was joined by the pitters from clothes heavy with rain. They all spoke at the same time, filling the formerly quiet house with cacophony. The tension and pressure that had filled the air was almost immediately eased away. Children tended to have that effect; it was nearly impossible to remain solemn when they had something to show you. Athima heaved herself up from her seat and tried to calm them. It was a futile attempt. They only grew louder and more affectionately obnoxious.

The group pushed the dwarven girl forward, who had her arms wrung behind her back.

“Show her! Show her!” they demanded, poking and prodding at her.

“Fine! I’ll show her, and show _you_ guys that I was _right!_ ” she hissed back at them. She brought forward her hands for display. Gripped between small grubby fingers were stalks of embrium, most of the petals crumpled and torn. She held her head high, seemingly full of confidence, but an unconscious nibbling of her lip betrayed her anxiety. “You… You said they were ready, Nina. You said yesterday that you should cut them before their heads got too heavy.” Nina? He hadn’t heard that pet name for awhile. Solas watched with curious amusement. All of the bombastic attitude that the child had shown to the others drained away when she spoke to Athima. “You said that maybe I was ready to start learning how to do it. But I’ve watched you do it a _thousand times_ ,” she exaggerated with a shake of the embrium, scattering dirt, “and I wanted to surprise you with them all nice and cut when you woke up!”

The girl finished her defense and awaited her judge’s reaction.

Athima simply laughed and tousled her hair. “No harm done! I did tell you that it was ready. I should have never expected you to be patient,” she teased, squeezing the girl’s ribs. She was rewarded with a sheepish giggle. Carefully plucking the flowers from the child’s hands, she placed them in a jar and corked it shut.

The rest of the children looked on with palpable disappointment.

“Aw, c’mon, that’s it? I was-”

“-thought Nina was gonna be so angry-”

“-the time when Samuel-”

“-maybe she only gets angry at grown-ups?”

She hushed them, ritually patting each of them on their heads. “Now, now. I am disappointed that Margot didn’t ask, and a little concerned because many of the plants in that garden are not safe-”

“We know which ones those are! We’re not stupid!” piped up a boy. “We just-”

She bent down to his level and gave him a look that only wise old ladies could give. He went silent.

She straightened herself before continuing. “...but ultimately, it was only a few embriums lost. Nothing to get angry about. Just ask next time. Right, Margot?”

The dwarven girl nodded her head. 

“Now,” she began, clapping her hand against her thigh, “I would love to have you all stay longer, but it’s dark and your parents are expecting you. I wouldn’t want them to think that the witch on the hill kidnapped all their little ones.” She turned her hand into an outstretched claw and took a threatening step forward. 

“Nooo! Not the witch, she’ll boil us!” Luca fakely squealed, running around the chair to hide. It was then that he met with Solas, who had stayed out of the children’s view until that moment. Luca immediately rethought his means of escape, and fled to hide behind Athima instead. The other kids came forward to stare at Solas. They said nothing, until-

“Why is he bald?”

“He looks like my grandpa!”

“Is that a staff or is your back bad like Nina’s?”

“Are you a _wizard?_ ”

Solas chuckled. “No, but I am a mage.” They all oohed. Since when had children not feared mages?

“And a very tired one, at that. I’m sure he’s exhausted from all the traveling he’s done,” Athima interjected. “I’m sure all of you will be exhausted too by the time you travel back to your homes.”

That was the cue. Groaning generously, they trodded out of the house, waiting procedurely for Luca to finish giving her a tight hug. Only when the last tiny boot made its way past the entrance and the door was pulled shut behind them did Athima allow a breath of reprieve.

“Wonderful kids, but I swear my hearing will give out one of these days.”

Solas approached her, careful to keep a formal space between them. The pressure was already seeping back in with the absence of a distraction. “So I am exhausted, you say?” His real question obscured itself between the lines. She had no obligation to house him that night, and she very well knew it. Throwing him out into the muck would be a charitable treatment.

She reached out to grasp his shoulder. “It’s late, and this storm is only bound to get worse before it gets better. I wouldn’t have you sleeping out in this.”

“Ah. My thanks. Then where…?”

“Wherever you wish.” She halted, rethinking her words. “...Almost wherever. I know it is unhostly for me to not offer my guest the bed, but I am the one with a bad back, as the children say.”

He moved his pack onto the the table before replying. “Please, do not let me put you out in any way. The ground is fine. Thank you.”

“You already said that, vhenan.” There it was again. He could say it too. He should.

“Only because I am that thankful, vhenan.”

It was wrong. It fit awkwardly in his mouth like someone else’s pair of teeth, clipping his gums and scraping against his tongue. Once he said it, he knew that he shouldn’t have. For her to say it was her decision. It was a bestowing that only she was in the position to give. He was not permitted to. Not yet, and perhaps never would be. She noticed it too, but she did nothing to acknowledge the blunder. She simply hummed as she put a pot underneath the drip in the roof and idly returned the teatray to the counter. When she looked at him again, however, her expression was sagging.

“I’m heading to bed. Sleep when and where you wish, just blow out the candle when you’re done. We’ll discuss things in the morning. Goodnight, Solas.” She nodded curtly.

“Goodnight, Athima.”

Then she was gone. Not by much, only in the other room. If one could even call them rooms. They closer resembled spaces vaguely isolated by walls of antiques and relics and the occasional corner. He didn’t know which corner she slept in, nor did he attempt to find out. Although it had been an excuse to get rid of the children, Solas was truly exhausted. After rolling out his furs and silencing the flame with a wet thumb, he fell upon his bedding and closed his eyes.

Relief did not come to him.

Despite his body throbbing with fatigue, his mind was unable to rest. Everything in the past hour had been so surreal. The memory was still shiny and saturated, having not fully set within his mind yet. Still, he tried to turn it over in his head. He needed to think about what he would do, what he would say. _We’ll discuss things in the morning._ What did that imply? Although they had shared a break of tranquility, there were still many dilemmas left to speak about. Left to explain. Left to learn. Left to apologize for. Who knew how much time he had to say it all. Just because she let him stay tonight did not mean she would let him stay the next.

His deliberating was interrupted with a noise. At first, he couldn’t identify it. He stilled his breathing, craning his neck to hear.

Crying.

She was crying.

Facing the ceiling, Solas covered his face with his palms and dug his nails into the sides of his head. He shuddered, but did not give himself the privilege of getting lost in his anger. If his wrath waxed out of control, he wouldn’t be able to bear staying within the confinement of the house. If only he could calm himself like he used to. When he hadn't had other options to release energy safely, he would chill the ground below him and force himself to lay within its radius, breathing in the magical frost and feeling it warp inside his lungs. In the most literal way, it was his method of cooling off. But when he spread his hands against the stone, nothing happened. Not even a single fractal. He cursed under his breath and banged his fists lightly against the floor.

The crying was now nearly inaudible, interrupted only by a few sniffles or hiccups.

It was both incredibly easy and impossibly hard for former gods to break habits. She was a habit he never intended to break. But he had. And how he utterly hated himself for it.

Solas rolled over and was thankful for the promise of a dreamless sleep.


	3. A Decision

Solas awoke with a stream of water being dribbled over his forehead. He unconsciously batted it away, using the back of his sleeve to rub himself dry. Then he remembered where he was.

He sat up with a start, narrowly missing the metal ladle that was the perpetrator of his wet awakening. Athima stood above him, a small and devious smile on her face. She bit back a laugh and flicked a few more drops of water in his direction. “Sleep well?”

“I had been.” He kept his expression carefully neutral.

“I’m sorry to wake you.” She didn’t seem sorry at all. “Ah, but the sun has been up for over an hour! There’s much to do today. And you’re going to help me with it.” The old woman pointed the ladle at Solas as if she was knighting him. He stared at the kitchen utensil, then raised his eyes back to hers wordlessly. Hadn’t he gone to sleep to her crying? What had happened during the night for such a sudden change in mood?

“Help you with it? You mean…”

“You know I’m not one to dance around a subject, Solas.” She tapped the ladle playfully against his nose, as if a parent scolding a child. “I expect you didn’t come all the way out here just to say hello and leave. Unless you did. Then by all means, be on your way.” The ladle was gestured to the door. “...If you’re staying, however, then you will have to earn your keep. You see, I can’t keep up this place like I used to. That’s where you come in. You help with the chores, the upkeep, the occasional errand… and you get to live here. Does that sound like a fair bargain to you?”

He opened his mouth, but only a moment later did anything come out. “You wish for me to stay?”

Her mischievous grin was exchanged for something more genial, more gentle. She looked down at the ladle, rubbing against it with the pad of her thumb. If she had two hands, it would almost look like a sort of fidgeting. It gave her a sudden air of timid youth. “What I wish for… is whatever closure we must find together. That requires time, which I am in short supply of,” she said factually. She then left him to set the ladle on the counter, talking to him from over her shoulder. “You may decline my offer, but know that when you leave this village, I’d rather you not return. If you stay, you may leave whenever you choose, but with the same stipulation. Do not come back.”

Solas wiped away any leftover drowsiness from the corners of his eyes. He was one step behind while she spoke, his mind still muzzy from his slumber. When his brain finally caught up, he found himself overwhelmed. Still, a single question rose before all the others. “...And how long am I allowed to remain here?”

“However long it takes,” she answered simply, back still turned to him. The pile of dirty dishes stacked near the wash basin seemed to catch her attention, and she began to scrub at them nonchalantly with a cloth. “I will not press for an immediate decision. You have until the end of the day to decide. If you stay, we will find proper bedding for you. If you leave, you may rest here for another night and leave the morning thereafter.” Her former duties as Inquisitor shone through her speech. This was how someone made a contract, not an invitation. However, Solas could not find fault in her way of direct thinking. It was fair to want him to stay away once he left. In fact, it would have been fair if she hadn’t made the offer altogether. He was again startled by the offhand manner in which she seemed to possess about the situation. Their situation. 

“Is this agreeable to you?” she asked.

He nodded. “I understand. I will give you my answer by dusk.”

In full honesty, he could have given her his answer right then. There was no doubt in his mind that he wanted to stay with her. After all, what else was he to do? The world had rejected him. According to the ones that had defeated him, he was supposed to be dead. Withered away on some sandy dune, a humiliating death. The only place he could possibly do some good was here. 

As Athima busied herself with washing, Solas packed away his furs he had used during the night and began to weave his wrapping back onto his feet, beginning at the inside of his ankle and then lacing underneath his sole. It was a time-consuming activity, but after decades of daily practice, he could have both feet properly wrapped within minutes. Athima had always enjoyed watching him do it. At first, it was out of curiosity. Oh, she had always been so curious of him. An elf who acted like one from the cities, but went barefoot like a Dalish, and spoke like neither. Truly an anomaly of their kind. Besides that, his way of wrapping was unlike the way most Dalish did it. He would argue that it was ultimately better, but argue he would have to indeed. She always preferred the method that she had been taught from her clan. Despite neither of them being persuaded of the other’s preferences, both learned each other’s technique; first out of interest and from too many dull nights in camp, then for… other reasons. Wrapping and unwrapping each other for the day became something intimate, or at least an opportunity for a prelude. Hands often found themselves wandering away from the legs.

Solas didn’t realize he was gazing at the back of Athima, memories unconsensually lurching awake. How beautiful she had been… how brilliant… how compassionate. No. There was no past tense needed for those descriptions. Despite her years, she had not lost any of herself that some people began to do at her age. She was still all there. Still all Athima. It made it all the harder to keep himself composed. It used to be so easy for him to turn himself into something cold and calculating. During the war, he had perfected the ability. A general, rebellion leader, and alleged god could not allow himself to be tempted by biased emotions or impulses. But the years had affected him just as it had her, and simply put, he got tired. He got tired of pretending not to notice things, to politely shake hands with someone that was planning his overthrow, to disallow himself to want or feel. So he had begun to crack. Begun to lose his temper. Let his foes see when he was desperate. Perhaps that, in the end, was one of the reasons of his undoing. Having already learned it, however, allowed Solas to let himself gaze at Athima with such raw admiration that it would have put a mabari pup to shame.

It wasn’t until she glanced back at him that he looked away, like a young boy who had been caught staring at his sweetheart. Athima turned her head back with an exhale, but he could see her smiling shyly into her shoulder.

Decidedly done with his wrapping, Solas came to Athima’s side and wordlessly took a cup from her wet hand. She watched as he picked up a nearby towel to dry the dish…

...When a collection of extremely _scented_ herbs spilled out onto the floor, as well as all over himself. For the second time that day, Athima had to fight to keep herself from laughing. 

He felt himself redden. They really were acting like schoolyard children. Except rather than the fear of unrequitance keeping them at bay, it was a chasm of isolation and soured pasts.

“I apologize for that. I’ll get it cleaned immediately.” He bowed his head stiffly.

A giggle escaped her. “No need for apologies. You were just trying to help. But the next time you go flinging around closed cloths, do check if there’s anything inside, would you? Odds are that I’m always drying something in one way or another.” Her way of speech uncannily paralleled her response to the dwarven girl the day before. Once again, he felt like a child being scolded. The color on his face deepened.

“Of course. Of course.” His head swiveled about the room. “Do you happen to have a broom?”

She chuckled, moving to a secluded nook near the cupboard. After reaching a hand deep behind it and angling her shoulder in just the right way, she brought out a broom, then a mop. They had been painstakingly hidden. If he hadn’t seen her so it, he would have sworn that she had pulled them out of thin air. He gave her a questioning look.

“The children will swordplay with them if I don’t hide them,” she justified. “That’s all fine, but the wood in them is old, and I don’t want them breaking my only set. Let them play with sticks and leave my cleaning instruments alone, I say.” Her explanation struck him as something extremely motherlike to say. Or grandmotherlike, as the situation may be. It brought attention to a very good question: Where were her children? Or rather, had she had any?

Before he could give any further pondering into the examination, he had a broom thrust into his hands. “Sweep first, then mop,” she instructed. “Usually I’d be fine with simply brushing it out the door, but what you made of a mess of was specifically going to be used for its smell. It’ll stick if we don’t wash it out.” Solas obeyed and began sweeping the floor, but still kept an ear to listen intently. “Around this time of year, one of the ladies of the village always asks me to make her a perfume, and a man who fancies her who coincidentally wears a cologne of a very similar scent. He hopes she will notice.” She shook her head, hand on her cheek. “This will be the third year... Ah, but who am I to meddle in the love affairs of the youth.”

He flipped the broom upside down to scratch out a stem from between the floorboards. “The village elder, I reckon.”

“Is that what they told you?” She sighed. “Well, I suppose I am the oldest. That would make me the elder by definition. Still, humans always use it to mean a respected position, of wisdom and such. Like a Keeper.”

His eyes met hers. “And would that be so wrong?” He raised his eyebrows.

With a slow, steady descent, Athima planted herself in a chair. She sank into the worn cushions and her fingers tapped a short drumline into the armrest. “No. No, not really. I mean, I had been my clan’s First, and then the Inquisitor. I’d like to think I can handle a position of power.” She eyed Solas, as if genuinely wondering. He said nothing. “But that’s just it. These are my neighbors, my friends. I do not wish to rule over them, or be put in a place above them. Other than in the literal sense, with having my house on a hill and all.” She gave him a sheepish grin, embarrassed of her own joke. “I’d rather just live alongside them. I’ve had to distance myself from people because of my status for far too long. I’m sure you can relate,” she said with a knowing look.

Images of his soldiers and scouts flashed through his mind, then his advisors and colleagues. There had been some that he had gotten close to, yes. Some that he might even call friend, if not for the circumstances. Working together with someone for years either lended itself to closeness or begrudging mutual dislike. In fact, there had been more than one opportunity that a follower of his had coveted for more than friendship. He denied them, of course. It wouldn’t have been right. He was their superior. He had to be a statue of authority, and keeping those sort of relationships would humanize him too much, not to mention give his enemies an easy hostage. No, it definitely wouldn’t have been right. Especially since he still…

“Yes, I can relate.”

Solas knelt to the floor and brushed his palm over the wood. Upon passing his inspection that it was clean, or as clean as it would be in an antiquated village home, he set himself upon mopping the space with fervent vigor. Once again, memories unabidingly racked his brain. He forced himself to focus on the action of the mop. Scrub in, scrub out. Scrub in…

There had been one that had refused to take no for an answer. She was a vain little thing, a city elf who had been raised by human nobles. Based on her accounting, they had done her no wrong, but she slashed their throats in their sleep once she heard of his rebellion. He had no fondness for the woman. Still, she had a physique like a rose, fine and curved. Her touch was soft, as it came from hands that had never worked a true day in their lives. She had attempted to court him, through jewels and secrets and promises of lust. He wish he could say that he was not tempted. Not for companionship, no. He could hardly stand being in the same room with her. However, she had somehow become widely popular among her followers, and they wanted to see their king take a queen. So for the sake of the masses, and admittedly a reprieve for his own carnal appetite, he briefly considered it.

Then he imagined Athima, standing in her war room, being debriefed by Leliana or some scout or other that Fen’Harel had taken on another lover. It was an effect of his own pride to believe that the news would hurt her immeasurably. Still, based on the way she still hunted for a glimpse of him in her dreams, he assumed he would be right. He was a cruel man, that was undeniable. But when he had the choice, he would never wish to be cruel to her.

Solas wrung out the mop into a bucket.

Hand on her hip, Athima nodded her approval. “Seems good enough to me. Now there’s only one thing left that needs to washed.” Her eyes went to his tunic. It had stains from where the herbs, still wet, had spilt over him. He pinched the center of the fabric and brought it to his nose. He recoiled at the scent. It smelled strongly, _strongly_ of yarrow and clove and something he couldn’t identify that made his eyes water. It was unpleasantly reminiscent of the scented soaps that they had been given when they stayed in Orlais. Painful, almost.

“They pay you for this?” he asked, only slightly astounded.

“Oh, of course not. I would never accept money for something like this,” she affirmed. “...Now, if they just happen to stop by every once in awhile with some new seeds or a sack of brown sugar or whatnot, well, that’s just being neighborly, isn’t it?” Her mouth curved into a secretive, sly look. Then she reached out her hand expectantly.

He didn’t catch on.

Athima sighed. Her fingers went to his sleeve, and she tugged at it. “I won’t have you stinking like a thrice-used mortar. Besides, I might send you to town. By all the luck in the world, I bet that the woman will notice you wearing the same scent as her. It’d be three years for naught. I won’t let you ruin all my hard work as the _elder_.” She spoke seriously, but there was a teasing shine to her tone.

For a moment, just a moment, Solas felt self-conscious at the idea of taking his shirt off in front of her. Then his logic trailed in after it, that it needed to be washed, that she had seen him with much less than a shirt, that they were both mature enough to not be bothered by such a juvenile taboo as nudity. So with clear rationale, he slid his sleeves from his arms and yanked the tunic over his head. He traded it with her for a slice of buttered bread and a soft fruit.

“For breakfast,” she explained.

He thanked her.

“While I get this soaked, you can cut the embriums. Margot only got a couple stems yesterday, and I trust that you can do it much more efficiently. And while you’re out there, do you mind maybe picking the radishes too? They’ve been ripe for a few days now.” She bobbed her head in the direction of the counter, where a pair of shears rested, newly washed that morning. “You didn’t forget your floriculture during the war, did you?”

He shook his head and retrieved the tool. “I’ll have it done.”

“Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be finished by the time you are.”

He said nothing as he opened the door and stepped into the late dewy morning. He said nothing as he felt the sun beat bare on his back. And he certainly said nothing as a few roaming children gawked at him from behind the fence posts, as if he was a peculiarity existing only for their growing entertainment. He felt justly abashed and decided that Athima knew exactly what she was doing.

Pride. He was pride. Even when they had been lovers, there were few times that his sense of rightful hubris had deflated. Athima, however, was his polar opposite. His balance. Humility. She hadn’t planned on him making a mess, surely, but she knew from the time he awoke that she had to set the perimeters for him staying with her. There would be no hierarchy, no aloofness, and no shame. If they were to live together, then they were to live together. For someone who had been sitting on something comparable to a throne a mere year ago, it was a bracing, if not humbling, reminder.

He bent to snip at the embriums, careful to keep their petals undamaged. Then he moved onto pulling the radishes. He stooped to his knees and yanked at the stems, cleverly twisting them so they uprooted more cleanly. It was lengthy work. The air was heavy, as it always was after a storm. He was sure that come tomorrow he would have calluses on his hands that would match his feet. As the sun ascended higher and higher into the sky, he became more and more grateful that he did not have a shirt to sweat into. The labor was strenuous, but refreshing. So when he finished with the radishes, he decided to pull up some of the weeds that had sprang up from between the rows and rows of foliage. It added at least another hour to his work.

Once he finally returned inside the house, he deposited the radishes into a basket and the embriums into the jar she had corked the night before. He spotted his clean tunic already resting upon a stool, completely dry. Athima was nowhere in sight. He went to grab it, then stopped with his hands inches away. There was soil caked onto his hands and crusted underneath his nails. Looking down at himself, he realized that he had become filthy. He searched for something to wash himself with.

It was then that Athima walked into the room. She had an air of brisk business, but when she saw him, it wilted away. He thought that he was dirty, but by the look on her face, he may as well had been rolling in one of the puddles that had accumulated after the rain. He suddenly wished for a mirror. Or a rag. Or anything. “Oh, Solas,” she uttered. “You really went for it, didn’t you?” She neared him. Without even thinking, she swabbed a thumb across his cheek. When she inspected it, it was dark with grime. “I was going to ask you to drop something off at the tailor, but you’re in no shape to be seen in public. I can go while you tidy up.” Gone was the Inquisitor giving him orders and signing him into contracts. “You can use my tub, if you’d like. I have pipes.”

“Thank you. I would… appreciate that very much.” The work had loosened him, but he was still not prepared to be informal with her. He had no right to be.

“Solas,” she repeated. He met her eyes. “Thank you. Truly. I wasn’t just ordering you around for the sheer thrill of it-”

“Of course not,” he interjected.

“-but I haven’t been in much of a shape to work in the garden lately. I can prune them well enough, but when it comes to picking, I tire quickly. Ma serannas.” He could tell that she meant it.

“It was of no issue. After all, if I am to stay here, I must learn to work. Or relearn, as the case may be.” He rubbed his hands together, flecking off pieces of dirt.

She read into the insinuation immediately. He hadn’t initially meant it in that way, but as it was a result of his brain unconsciously presuming that he would accept her offer, he had no reason to correct himself. “You know that you have until the end of the day to choose,” she reminded him.

“I know. I do not need that long.”

A quiet joy flickered across her face. The expression erased any dwindling doubts that he was making the correct choice. “Then you have made your decision.” It was not a question, but reaffirming a fact.

He took her hands into his. His long, earth-covered fingers curled around hers. While wrinkled and worn and slightly knobby at the joints, they still felt strong, like they never went a day without being used. The tips of her fingers were of a dark blackened color, like ash. It was a symptom of a mage that specialized in wielding fire barehanded. Ah. So she still used her magic regularly. He felt a sharp pang of personal loss, but it was blindsided by sentiment.

“I have. I have little to offer except for myself, but I wish to stay here, while I may. If you will have me.”

She withdrew his hands and swept her arms around him, drawing him into an embrace. “Of course I will have you, vhenan.”

There she was. In his arms, forehead bent into his shoulder, standing there. He was again struck by his adoration for her, but he kept it contained and only held her as close as an acquaintance would.

She pulled away and looked up at him, smiling glowingly. It was contagious. “Go ahead and grab something to eat while I’m out. I may not be back until dusk. If it’s in the cupboard, it’s yours.” Then, with a pat on his shoulder and a last endearing look, she walked out the door, leaving him alone in the house.

He stood there for awhile. Simply staring at the door, then about the room. It was a cozy place, one that someone might politely call ‘quaint’. There were few decorations of ornate quality, and yet still the walls were taken up by mounted cooking wares and shelves of ingredients. Athima had never been a messy woman. There was an organized chaos to it all; it made it look fully and thoroughly lived in. He supposed he should get used to it, if this were to be his place of residence.

 _For how long,_ his mind echoed. _How long until she realizes the mistake she made letting you stay. How long until you are thrown back onto the road. How long until you are left truly alone._

He ignored the infectious thoughts and went to find the bath. It wasn’t until it was filled halfway that he realized that the water was cold. He felt underneath the tub, and sure enough, there was a permanent heat rune inscribed on the stone below it. Unfortunately, he was in no state to activate it. So he deposited himself into the water, and while the chill sent a spike up his spine, it was satisfying to watch the filth wash off of him all the same.

It then hit him. He was staying here. Of all the scenarios that he thought might occur when he showed up on Athima’s doorstep, this would have been one of the most unrealistic. And yet here he was, bathing in her house, waiting for her to return home from the market. It struck him as sounding uncomfortably domestic. He should be grateful that she didn’t wish to scream or curse him out. He should be. But was he?

It seemed like he was getting off too easily. It made a ball of uneasy guilt stick in his stomach, as if it were a jagged stone weighing him to the bottom of the tub. Of all of his regrets, she was one of them that was most personal, as well as the one that could have been most easily prevented. He could have kept his wits about him and not let himself get knotted up in a web of attraction. Or he could have kept it as simple enticement and not let himself admire her, adore her, respect her. He could have done many things, but at the end of the day, it had been too easy to fall into love with her. It was like dressing in the morning; he hadn’t even had to think about it. It wasn’t a decision, it simply was. 

He still dressed every morning. He still found himself loving her.

Solas shivered. He pulled himself out of the bath, dried off, and emptied the water back into the pipes. Disobeying Athima’s suggestion and providing his own provisions from his pack, he ate thoughtfully, legs crossed on the floor. He decided that he would pull on some slacks and not dirty the freshly-cleaned tunic. It would be a humid night. Slumbering in a shirt made little sense. Slumbering... That sounded like the best idea he had thought up in ages. He felt his muscles give in to the sanctuary of the floor, pulled and throbbing from the day's work.

By the time Athima returned, he was already sprawled out on his furs, fast asleep.


End file.
